Discretion
by roxierocks
Summary: Harry gets jealous...You and Me Series 4


disc: don't own it (still!)

warning: slash, meaning man/man sexual relationship

a/n: thank you sooooo much for all your reviews! wow, it was amazing and they were all really good ones. thanks to everyone who went and read all of my stuff after reading one story, that was so great. so here it is, the next of the you and me series, which i hope you will all enjoy (though i don't think it's as humorous as the others). if this is the first one you've read, and you're intrigued by The Words, and the potions desk, then check out "I Hate You, I Love You" (and hopefully all the others!). i've tried to keep it so you can just read one on it's own, but they do all link together. enjoy! 

He's tormenting you again.

You watch him, wrapping his pink tongue around his spoon, running it over his lips.

He knows you're watching.

Damn brat.

You stare, stone faced, at your plate. Doesn't he know the meaning of discretion? You're in the Great Hall for heaven's sake!

There's a smudge of chocolate pudding on his chin and you smirk, despite yourself. He glances up, catches your eye, grins as his tongue flits out.

You both look away, painfully aware that every glance could be one too many.

You let your icy gaze roam the tables of the hall, the sneering, snivelling students providing a welcome distraction. It lingers on your own house, and for a split second you feel something like pride flare within you, but you brush it aside, almost impatiently. Most students are oblivious to you. They eat and talk amongst each other, never giving you a second thought.

Save one.

He is regarding you with a fierce intensity. His grey eyes sparkle with purpose, challenge and something else.

Is that…?

He runs his tongue lightly over his lips.

Yes is it.

Oh dear.

You eyes automatically flick back to Harry, but he's no longer looking at you. In fact, his murderous gaze is fixed quite firmly on Grey Eyes at the Slytherin table.

Oh dear.

If you were a braver man you wouldn't run at the first sign of emotional conflict. You wouldn't wonder what had possessed you to embark on a relationship in the first place. You wouldn't imagine that hiding for a few hours will make it all go away.

However you are not a braver man, much as you loathe to admit it, and the thought of said emotional conflict gives you a feeling akin to that of a deer caught in headlights, so you slip off before the meal is finished, down to the dungeons. Down to safety.

You're seated in your favourite armchair, firewhisky in hand, when the frenzied knocks split the tranquillity of your safe haven.

You scowl.

Perhaps if you pretend not to be here, he'll get the hint and go away.

You hear a muffled voice, spitting out an all too-familiar word.

Or perhaps he'll just use the password to your chambers.

Bugger.   

He storms in, green eyes blazing, hair its usual catastrophe, cheeks pink with indignation.

Merlin. You've never wanted him as much as you do right now.

"Are you fucking Malfoy?"

Your eyebrow lifts, and an automatic sneer crawls across your face.

"No. I am not "fucking" Malfoy, as you so eloquently put it."

 He narrows his eyes, still suspicious.

"Then what was that little display about in the hall?"

You stand up, brush past him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He grabs your arm, shouting "Don't just walk away from me!"

A deathly silence follows, in which you stare icily at his hand on your arm.

He pulls away, blushing slightly.

He's chewing on his lower lip, afraid to look at you, and again you feel a wave of lust.

Damn primitive urges.

You sigh, closing your eyes.

Enough games. Just be straight with him, as hard as that may be.

"Harry," you say, suddenly feeling very tired. "I'm not with Malfoy or anyone else. I can't explain his actions earlier because they were nothing to do with me."

You look at him now, praying that your eyes don't give away the vulnerability you're feeling.

"It's you and only you."

You stare at each other for a moment, then he throws himself on you, flinging his arms around your neck.

You squirm -there is, unfortunately, no other word for it- under the closeness of his touch, but he does not let go, and rests his head against your chest.

"I can hear your heart," he whispers.

This disturbs you, but for reasons you can't identify. Perhaps it's because you've never thought of yourself as having a heart. Until him.

You clear your throat and push him away, but he holds tight, drawing you closer.

"Not yet," he says.

You understand and, after a moment, encircle him with your arms, allow your cheek to rest against the softness of his hair.

You're half dreading that he's going to say The Words again, but the other half of you thrills at the idea.

No one has ever told you they loved you before.

Not your parents, or friends, or the string of lovers, both men and women, that have filled your meaningless life.

Only him.

You pull away and he lets you, perhaps aware that your thoughts are drifting into uncharted areas.

"I have to go," he says.

You know he has to go. But something's stirring inside you, something you can't quite ignore…

You lean towards him, your lips brushing his ear.

"Not yet."

A shiver runs through his body.

You deposit the forgotten firewhisky onto your writing desk and snake one arm around his waist, drawing him to you as the other hand tangles in his hair, exposing his white throat.

He groans as your tongue flicks across the skin.

You let go of his hair, stroking his cheek with almost unbearable tenderness. He reaches an arm around your neck, kissing you with fierce yet gentle passion.

It's not like last time, over the potions desk.

Everything is slow and soft and unbelievably sexy as you search out each other's bodies.

It's lovemaking in every sense of the word.

You lay on the rug infront of the fire, the flames dancing across your naked bodies, the only sound your distorted breath.

The fingers of your right hand are entwined with his, when did that happen? You want to pull away but something keeps you there, enjoying such a rare moment of intimacy.

He sighs and closes his eyes as he rests his head against your shoulder, sleepy in the afterglow.

You have a sudden, terrifying, urge to stay with him. All day, all night, forever. To hold him and love him and never be apart from him.

He shifts his head to look at you and you know, you just know he's going to say The Words. This terrifies you even more, and you cover his mouth with your own, preventing him from making any sound except a muffled "mmm" against your lips.

His hand squeezes your own, and you stiffen.

He lets go, aware that he's crossed a line.

"I have to go," he says again.

You don't stop him this time, you both dress in silence.

There's something thick and heavy in the air; he thinks he's upset you.

As he reaches the door you put a hand on his arm, turning him around to face you, and smile, something you've been doing more around him lately.

You kiss him gently. "I'll see you later."

His eyes light up, and you ignore the part of you which whispers you're becoming soft.

"Later," he grins, and goes hurtling out of the door, crashing straight into a badly placed gargoyle. 

He blushes up at you from the floor, and you raise an eyebrow.

"It's called discretion, Mr Potter."


End file.
